Out There Somewhere
by Nynaeve1723
Summary: Another story about Jordan on the run, finding Pollack's killer and coming home. I managed to finish it before the premiere!
1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Willing, ready and able to stage a coup.

NOTES: I've only been working on this for six months now. The upcoming premiere motivated me to get it done! Oh and the police work and forensics is incredibly unrealistic, I know. Call it creative license which, were I being paid for this, I wouldn't do, but given I'm not…well, do the math.

DEDICATION: Those of you who so kindly feedback my stories. I appreciate it tons and tons. J/W fans will like the way this one turns out – after a lot of twists. Scout's honor!

**I Know You're Out There Somewhere: Empty Streets**

"Is she okay?" Garret Macy's voice was controlled and low, his face a mask of rock.

Nigel looked up briefly, from the computer comparison he was running. "I don't know what you mean, Dr. M."

Macy came closer. "Yeah, you do, Nigel. Is Jordan all right?"

"I don't know where she is."

"I didn't ask if you knew where she was. I asked if she was all right."

Nigel started to protest again.

"Cut the crap, Nigel. I know you've been in contact with her." Garret took a deep breath. "Look, I'm not going to tell Detective Simmons or the D.A. anything. I swear."

Nigel's blank expression faltered for a heartbeat. His eyes revealed his fear and concern, his mouth opened and closed as his face paled, stricken.

"I just need to know if she's all right."

The Brit swallowed. He glanced around them and then, keeping his voice low, replied. "She's okay. Not great, but okay. Safe. For now."

Macy nodded. "Don't tell me anything else, okay? I don't want to know." He gave his criminologist a significant look.

"Yeah. Right, of course."

Macy turned to leave and then swiveled back around. "Nige?"

The taller man looked up.

"When you get the chance, tell her I miss her." He let out a breath. "And that we _are_ going to prove she didn't kill Pollack."

Nigel nodded.

XXXXX

The first e-mail had come about four months ago, three days after Woody and Nigel had found Jordan's abandoned cell phone. Nigel had tracked its location using the GPS locator chip embedded in the device. For a few long moments, he and Woody had stood on that darkened corner in one of Boston's less desirable neighborhoods looking flummoxed. Because the signal was stationary they'd assumed she'd gone to ground in some cheap motel. Instead they'd found the phone in a trash can and any trace of Jordan long gone.

Woody had logged the phone in to evidence and then asked Nigel to go over it for anything that might help them find their fugitive. Not that Woody had called her that. He, like everyone at the morgue, had avoided that term assiduously. Nigel had later told Woody that the phone had given him nothing.

That wasn't quite the truth.

Nigel had, on a hunch, turned the phone off and then back on. The start up message had been changed. Unless it had always read "Check dark e-mail." And Nigel strongly doubted that it had always read that, nor did it read that way for long, as he quickly changed the message back to its factory default.

He kept a number of very private e-mail accounts, ones under a variety of aliases and set up so as to be virtually untraceable. In point of fact, Nigel was rather confident that the only person in Boston, who worked with law enforcement, who _could_ trace them was – himself. He'd once mentioned it to Jordan and, given how much he trusted her, had gone so far as to give her one of the addresses. After all, with Jordan, one never knew what she might get herself into.

It seemed he'd been a smart man that day.

It had taken three days for her to get in contact with him. In the intervening time, he'd checked the "dark" account every time he could do so safely. He never utilized the Morgue computers, nor, when he used public access machines, did he use the same one twice. It paid off on the third day though. The message had been short, asking him – almost begging him – to do whatever he could to throw the police off her trail and to help her – to continue to help her – find out who the real killer was. It had also asked him to set up a way so that they could communicate securely.

Nigel had done just that. After that first message sent from a nondescript Hotmail account, he'd fashioned a system which allowed her to contact him each week. Every mail he sent went to a new account weekly and each response came from yet a different one and went to new aliases he devised for himself each week. In the seventeen weeks since she'd run, he felt he was getting to know most of the cities copy shops that had computer accents, not to mention the public library branches and, once, the terminal in a nearby hotel's lobby. And though he hadn't told Dr. Macy, he did actually know where she was and how she was getting by.

What he didn't know – couldn't know - was about the dreams that woke her up each night. The same dream really. What he couldn't even guess was that when the dream changed, everything else would as well.

XXXXX

Jordan wrapped her hands around the coffee mug and stared out the window in Mrs. Allington's kitchen, watching the sunrise over the mountains. The summer had been cool and up here, perched just above the Shenandoah Valley, the leaves were already turning. Gaudy golds, fiery reds, opulent oranges, even burnished browns clothed the branches in a transient cloth of glory. Each day a few more of those leaves drifted silently to the ground below, lying in tattered heaps. Soon the trees' coats of many colors would be stripped from them and they would spend the long winter cold, twisted, and skeletal under grim, bleak skies.

Jordan grimaced at herself. She had way too much time to think. She smirked to herself. _Maybe when this is all over I can write one of those inspiration books. Chicken Soup for the Fugitive's Soul. Yeah, that'll be an instant classic._ She snorted and then sipped the strong coffee.

Victoria Allington lived in the town of Staunton, Virginia. Widowed and living on a pension, she took in boarders in her old, lovingly maintained family home in the historic district, proudly noting to one and all that Stonewall Jackson had once eaten dinner in the dining room. The woman's effervescence and sparkling, mischievous eyes had drawn Jordan in when she'd arrived at the door with the recommendation of Darlene down at the Jackson Café; the inexpensive weekly rent – which included breakfast and dinner each day – had sealed the deal.

By the time she'd arrived in Staunton, Pollack had been dead over two months and, from her weekly e-mails with Nigel, Jordan knew little progress had made about finding his real killer. Lu Simmons was far more interested in finding Jordan. The on-the-run M.E. had planned on staying only a week or two, as she'd done in every other place, but fate stepped in. For once, that was a good thing.

Vicky – as she insisted Jordan call her – mentioned a brother who had a "little place" right downtown. "A bar, my dear," the lady had added, her voice low, a mixture of mild disapproval but stronger amusement. "He's in need of help." Vicky had dropped her eyes. "Not that you would ever have-"

"Oh, no, actually," Jordan had said in a rush. "My – uh – my uncle had a bar. In – um – Bar Harbor. I used to help out."

Mrs. Allington smiled. "You do look like a girl who enjoys a bit of an adventure, a challenge in life."

Jordan had smiled wryly, the look never touching her eyes. _If you only knew…._

A month ago, Vicky Allington had approached Jordan with a proposal. The old lady took twice-weekly trips into Washington D.C. As she explained it to Jordan, the drive was not a terrible one, but at her age, making the round trip in a day when the time in between was spent in classes was taking a real toll. When Jordan had given her a blank look, her landlady had laughed. "Didn't I mention I'm getting my Master's degree?"

Jordan began to hope she had half as much energy left when she reached the ages of the sister and brother who seemed to have adopted her. She also hoped for half their zest for life, though the outlook on that seemed bleak. She had readily agreed, not only because she really did enjoy her landlady's company in spite of the circumstances and did appreciate the way the woman had sheltered her, but because Pollack had been working on a case in D.C. when she'd called. He'd been working on that corruption case when he was killed. In Jordan's mind "corruption case" and "D.C." couldn't be a coincidence. She saw it as a twice-weekly chance to do her own investigating.

Thus far it hadn't helped her much. She'd had little to go on, no focus to speak of

Then her recurrent dream of Pollack had changed last night. Her fingers tingled and she rubbed them absent-mindedly.

"Problem, my dear?"

Jordan grinned. "No, Vicky. Why?"

The older lady shrugged. "You were rubbing your thumbs."

The M.E. gave a quizzical look.

"Ah, your generation doesn't know your quotations as you ought."

Another perplexed look.

Vicky's eyes got that mischievous sparkle Jordan so enjoyed. "Shakespeare, dear girl. _By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes."_

Was something wicked coming? Or coming to light maybe?

Jordan smiled Cheshire-like. Yes, maybe with her dream-clue something wicked would indeed be coming to light today. Probably only a small part of the wickedness, but part nonetheless. She grabbed the car keys and suggested they hit the road.

END Part One


	2. Chapter 2

DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Willing, ready and able to stage a coup.

NOTES: I've only been working on this for six months now. The upcoming premiere motivated me to get it done! Oh and the police work and forensics is incredibly unrealistic, I know. Call it creative license which, were I being paid for this, I wouldn't do, but given I'm not…well, do the math.

DEDICATION: Those of you who so kindly feedback my stories. I appreciate it tons and tons. J/W fans will like the way this one turns out – after a lot of twists. Scout's honor!

**I Know You're Out There Somewhere: The Mists are Slowly Lifting**

Nigel glanced yet again over his shoulder. It had been five days since his conversation with Dr. Macy and it wasn't that he didn't trust his boss – he did, implicitly, it was that it had added to his already healthy paranoia, which was why he'd gone out to Braintree to find a public access computer terminal. Whistling softly, he walked into a place aptly named "The Geek Isles." One look at the dim interior, the vast array of techno toys and the distrustful looking kid behind the counter and Nigel thought he'd reached paradise. He'd be willing to bet a year's salary that he could get these guys to set up an untraceable relay, erase any trace of his presence here and then easily claim a hundred blokes matching his description came in the shop in a month if Lu Simmons and her less-than-stellar-detective skills ever even got a whiff that he'd been here. His assessment proved correct. A quick word about "the man" (amazing how that still worked) and Nigel was set up.

When Jordan's mail came up, he was in the most relaxed frame of mind he could reach these days. True, he wished he had more to write back to her beyond Dr. M's reassurance that they'd find out – Sweet Nancy! He sat forward, nearly spilling the espresso he'd picked up next door. Then he reread her mail.

He nibbled on his lower lip, wondering exactly how he could get a hold of that police report, but vowing he would. He also couldn't imagine what had impelled her to think of it. Had she even known about Pollack's car accident? Still deep in thought, Nige paid for his time on the machine, grabbed a business card, which listed a few other locations and blessed his luck at finding this place.

XXXXX

Two days before that, Jordan had done her own deep thinking. From the time she had dropped Vicky at American University, as she had navigated D.C. traffic, she had planned what to say, how to wheedle out the information she needed. She'd also spent a lot of time hoping against hope that enough time had passed that even if her description had circulated this far, the D.C. precinct where she was going would be too busy to have noticed much or to remember. Truth be told, she couldn't have supplied a rational reason for her decision to walk freely into a police station. "You see, I had this dream and I just knew…" was going to sound pretty dumb if she ended up explaining it to Nige, Bug, Lily and Garret when the D.C. cops brought her handcuffed back to Boston. She couldn't even think about the Boston cops – Lu Simmons especially.

But she _had_ had this dream. Almost nightly since Pollack's death, her mind seemed to need to remind her that it might never have happened. She'd find herself in the hotel room with him – before the rehearsal and dinner. They'd be flirting, circling each other warily but ever closer, attraction still fierce, the possibilities reawakening. He'd kiss her and she'd respond. He'd say whatever it was he'd said about just staying there and she'd remind him of her maid of honor duties, knowing deep down it was nerves, that Lily would have understood if Jordan had skipped out. She'd add her "Besides, we have all night" and he'd reply in that silky tone "More than that I hope." In her dream she'd remember perfectly the way her heart had clenched, then fluttered as she tried to sort out what it meant, how he'd kissed her to emphasize his continuing desire for her and how she'd begun to believe there was hope for them. More – how she'd begun to like that idea. And then she'd wake up. Every night. Her heart thudding with some unnamed fear, her eyes wet with tears for what could have been, her soul shriveling with the certainty that she was missing some important moment in their exchange.

Then that morning – early – the dream. But when he'd said "More than that I hope" and kissed her, she had responded more ardently, wrapping her arms around him, pulling him closer. He'd groaned and pulled back, trying to grin.

"What is it?"

Wave of a hand. "Nothing."

"Pollack." Voice all but a growl.

A shrug. "Car accident. Last week. My ribs're just a bit bruised is all."

"What happened?" Her heart thudding now with identifiable fear.

"Some idiot. Ran a light." Brows creasing down. "Well, more like went out of turn. Then took off."

"Where?"

"Ah, right near the paper. Look, luv, not worth talking about, okay?" But his eyes. His eyes cutting away from her. "Give me five minutes to get cleaned up."

Jordan hadn't gotten back to sleep. It meant something. He'd never said anything to her. She'd only known about the car accident because Nigel had mentioned it as being a dead end in an e-mail. She'd sighed, knowing it could still be a dead end, but also knowing she had little to lose at that point. And her dreams had helped her before.

Now, two days later, Nigel had read the results of Jordan's foray. He could only imagine what ruse she'd tried on them. He did chuckle to himself, wondering if Jordan pulled the weepy girlfriend/sister/mistress on some poor unsuspecting bloke. Maybe she'd played the wronged wife, claiming to need the information for some marital reason. Perhaps she'd bluffed her way in, asserting her nonexistent authority to be there so strongly that she'd been believed. Her chimerical personality made it almost too easy for her. Sometimes Nige pitied the luckless souls who faced her. Most of the time it just amused him though and he could use the laugh.

Tapping his fingers on the break room table, he muttered, "Now, how to get the official copy of that police report."

"You've considered requesting it, right?" Lily, heretofore unnoticed, smirked over at him as she poured herself a cup of coffee.

"Not from B.P.D., I'm afraid," he replied, not really thinking.

"Where then?"

That brought Nigel back. "Uhhh… nowhere."

Lily nodded. "Ah, yeah. I hear there's a real crime problem in 'nowhere.' Terrible."

"Lily…."

She cocked her head and sat down across from him. "Nigel, come on. It has to do with Jordan." She met his gaze steadily. "Tell me I'm wrong."

"You're wrong." His voice was too miserable though.

She snorted. "Where does this report that you need come from?"

"Can't tell you that."

She nodded in understanding. "Why do you need it?"

"_Shouldn't_ tell you that."

"Can't you just – phone in an anonymous tip?"

Now Nigel snorted. "Yeah. And the first thing Detective Simmons will do is rush over here to figure out which one of us did it."

Lily grimaced at the truth in that statement. She fell silent, thinking, sipping her coffee. After a moment, her eyes narrowed. "Nige?"

He looked up.

"Can you think of anyone in this office who might know someone else who could get that report, some way you wouldn't have to go through Simmons or Walcott?"

The Brit thought for a moment and then his eyes gleamed. "Brilliant! You're bloody brilliant, luv!" He leaned across the table, captured her face in his hands and kissed her forehead. "If Dr. M comes around, tell him I needed to take care of something personal."

Stunned, but grinning, Lily nodded.

Twenty minutes later found Townsend with a pre-paid disposable cell phone calling an old friend. The man came on the line and Nigel explained, with minimal detail, the situation.

"You're joking! Come on, Nigel. You're kidding me! They think Jordan killed someone?" He snorted loudly. "If she didn't kill Woody after the way he was acting toward her… well, yeah. Jordan!"

"So, um, Danny, you're willing to get me what I need?"

"Hell, yeah!" came Danny McCoy's impassioned response. "Give me what you need. I'll have the report in the Boston Morgue by tomorrow morning."

"And Danny?"

"Yeah?"

"Not a word, okay?"

"Wouldn't dream of it."

XXXXX

Emmy brought Nigel an overnighted package which he tore into greedily. The contents were what Jordan had related, but now he had official documentation. He had the statement that would make the hearts of everyone at the morgue sing. The man suspected of crashing his car into Pollack's was being sought by the D.C. police.

For attempted murder.

END Part Two


	3. Chapter 3

DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Willing, ready and able to stage a coup.

NOTES: I've only been working on this for six months now. The upcoming premiere motivated me to get it done! Oh and the police work and forensics is incredibly unrealistic, I know. Call it creative license which, were I being paid for this, I wouldn't do, but given I'm not…well, do the math.

DEDICATION: Those of you who so kindly feedback my stories. I appreciate it tons and tons. J/W fans will like the way this one turns out – after a lot of twists. Scout's honor!

**I Know You're Out There Somewhere: Haunts me to the End**

Staying under Dr. M's radar meant working on Jordan's case sporadically and staying under Dr. M's radar was important because it let him stay under BPD and the D.A.'s radar. Nigel had taken to working lunches, staying late, coming in early. More than once he's spent the night on Jordan's couch in her office. He enlisted no one else's aid. Not yet. He knew he was likely to need Bug's help before the end and he certainly would need Macy's help and, most likely, Woody's in convincing the D.A. when the time came, so he couldn't risk their involvement yet. He knew the angles everyone else was working, the slender puzzle pieces being laid on the table, but he also knew none of those were going to provide the ultimate answer. And BPD, in the form of Lu Simmons, wasn't interested in finding the ultimate answer. She was interested in finding Jordan.

Nigel knew that for Lu, the case had become personal. That gave him a source of bitter amusement. Jordan had a way about her of making it personal – even when it was the last thing she tried to do. Of course, Jordan was out for justice; Lu was out for vengeance and _that_ did not provide Nigel any amusement.

The criminologist spent a frustrating day after receiving the D.C. accident report. The morgue was wall-to-wall bodies, it seemed. He ran analyses, examined trace evidence, began DNA comparisons and made more fingerprint matches than he could remember, all the while thinking of the file he now had, itching to study it, to drag from it any clues that might help Jordan.

Dusk had come, his colleagues had shuffled out of the morgue, exhausted, as tasks were finally completed for the day. Macy stuck his head into Nigel's lab. "Heading out?"

Nigel hesitated. "I – uh – in a bit."

They stared at one another for a long moment. Finally, Garret nodded. "Anything I can do?"

"Not yet."

Another beat of intense silence. "Let me know."

"The minute I have anything," the Brit promised, his voice fervent.

Nigel ordered up dinner from the corner deli and waited. Though everyone had gone home for the day, Woody had developed a habit of dropping in from time to time, checking on his active cases, he claimed, but clearly hoping for more information about Jordan. Once or twice he'd been followed quite closely by Simmons. The two of them – singly or in an unholy pair – were the last thing Nigel needed or wanted.

The coast clear at last, he opened the folder and read everything. He hissed "Yessss!" as he made notes in an encrypted Word file. Whatever digging Lu Simmons had done, it hadn't been very deep. She must have heard that Pollack had been in a car accident and nothing more – or hadn't wanted to hear anything else. Witness statements were quite clear: Pollack's car had just entered the intersection near his paper's office when the suspect's car had left a parking space, tires squealing and even smoking as he accelerated forcefully. The impact had driven Pollack into the stationary traffic to his right. The suspect had abandoned the car, fleeing on foot.

The D.C. crime scene unit assigned to the case found the car had been wiped clean of all prints. The glove box had been innocent of any documentation, from registration to insurance to even a library card. Tracking down the owner through the VIN number had proven only that it had been purchased from a single mother in Bethesda and never re-registered.

While Pollack had suffered some deep bruising and minor abrasions, his life had never been in serious danger, the attempted murder charge against the assailant notwithstanding. In his own statement, Pollack had mentioned he was a reporter who often worked on "difficult" cases. He'd evaded all questions about any current investigations in which he'd been involved. Nigel read between the lines quite well: the accident was a warning.

A warning the Aussie hadn't heeded.

That made Nigel wonder… why not? The man was an impassioned journalist, but he hadn't seemed foolhardy. Spending some time in a jail cell for contempt when he failed to release a source's name was one thing… endangering his own life? Why would he do that?

Nigel absently ate a few of the chips that had come with his sandwich and stared at the notes he'd made. What article could be so important? They knew, from his flash files, that it had to do with a federal judge and some very guilty people going free. A travesty, yes; worth the reporter's life? Why?

Nigel stopped mid-chew. _Not **why**. **Who**?!?!_ "Bloody hell," he whispered. "It couldn't be…." He swallowed. "Could it?"

This was Jordan's life. Of course, it could be. It had to be.

J.D. Pollack had gotten closer to finding out who killed Emily Cavanaugh than anyone ever had. Anyone who actually wanted the answer revealed that was.

And he'd died for it.

END Part Three


	4. Chapter 4

DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Willing, ready and able to stage a coup.

NOTES: I've only been working on this for six months now. The upcoming premiere motivated me to get it done! Oh and the police work and forensics is incredibly unrealistic, I know. Call it creative license which, were I being paid for this, I wouldn't do, but given I'm not…well, do the math.

DEDICATION: Those of you who so kindly feedback my stories. I appreciate it tons and tons. J/W fans will like the way this one turns out – after a lot of twists. Scout's honor!

**I Know You're Out There Somewhere: The Times I've Been Mistaken**

Nigel was singing under his breath when he came in the next morning. He even added the occasional burlesque bump and grind to punctuate the notes. He was stopped mid-bump (or possibly mid-grind) when Dr. M opened his office door, glared at the Brit and growled. "In here. Now."

Nigel's expression clouded and his words trailed off in a badly out-of-key, rhythmless confusion. His confusion, but not his expression, cleared when he entered the chief's office. He gave a weak smile. "Detective Simmons. What brings you here so early?" The lackluster chuckle he added didn't ease the situation any.

Garret was the one who spoke. "She's here because police in D.C. contacted her."

The Brit raised his eyebrow. If he could just bluff his way through this…. "Oh?"

"Someone was asking about a case they have on their books."

"Happens all the time, I'd think." Nigel shrugged.

"Probably," Lu agreed, standing up. "But not when the victim in their case was murdered in Boston. And not when the person asking about their case matched the description of our main suspect."

"_Your _main suspect," Nige spat back, his eagerness to defend Jordan tripping him up. His mouth snapped shut.

"It was her then?" This was Garret again. "Come on, Nigel. There's no use lying."

"I don't know," he replied. "I wasn't there, was I?"

Lu gave an exasperated sigh. "So you don't know either who requested a copy of D.C.'s police report or where it got sent to? 'Cause I'm betting somehow it ended up here or wherever Jordan is."

The criminologist had, once upon a time, found the blonde interesting. That had faded about the time he'd found out about Woody and her. It had died all together when it became clear she wasn't going to investigate anyone other than Jordan for Pollack's murder. He glared at her. "Prove it."

Her brows rose. "I'll get a search warrant." She waited a beat. "For your place. For the morgue. For your computers. I'll find it, Nigel."

"Since when did having a police report become a crime?"

"It's a crime if you're aiding and abetting a fugitive."

They locked eyes for a moment. Angrily, Nigel ripped open the side pouch of the laptop case he carried and thrust a sheaf of papers toward her. "Here. You want the report? There it is. If you bother to read it, you might actually realize there are other – better – suspects."

Lu took it. She glanced down at the report and kept her eyes lowered as she flipped through the pages. "Where is she?"

"I don't know."

"I don't believe you."

Nigel shrugged.

The cop switched tactics. Her voice softened and she reached a slender hand toward the adversarial man; he shied away. She persevered. "Nigel, look, I know she means a lot to you. Convince her to come back. We'll – We'll figure this out. If there's anything in this report that gives me a new lead then – then yeah, of course, I'll follow it. You know, I'm wasting a lot of time hunting for Jordan. Time I could be using to track the other suspects you're so sure are out there."

He spoke through gritted teeth. "Right." He snorted. "Tell me another one, Detective Simmons. Try selling me that oceanfront property in Arizona while you're at it." He gave her a steely look. "I can't convince her to come back when I don't know where she is and you can't prove anything, so don't bother to threaten me with warrants again."

Garret blinked automatically as the door slammed shut behind Nigel. He turned to the detective.

She looked up. "Do you believe him?"

"He doesn't know where she is."

"But he knows how to reach her."

Garret lifted a shoulder and let it drop. "I don't know." Dr. Macy glanced over his shoulder at the still reverberating door. "He's right though. You don't have proof of anything."

"Yet."

"You know, Detective, Nigel's got one thing right. There are other suspects. If you spent half as much time trying to follow those leads as you're spending trying to find Jordan, we all might know more by now."

"Why do all of you always protect her?" The blonde nearly exploded.

Macy gazed at her for a minute. "Because she's usually right." He paused. "And because no matter how she may seem to you, Jordan Cavanaugh is one of the most loyal, selfless people I know. She would have cut off her right arm rather than let you or Woody know how much the two of you hurt her."

"Sure! Because-"

"Because she wants what's best for him and if being involved with you seemed to make him happy, then she wasn't going to say anything to jeopardize that. So, yeah. Pride? Of course. A little. Who wouldn't want to protect themselves in that situation?" He shook his head. "But most of all? Caring and concern for someone who she cares about. More than you'll ever understand."

Her eyes blazing with a mixture of fury and a hint of shame, Simmons stalked from the chief M.E.'s office, tossing her blond hair back from her face as she did so, aware that she was just as guilty of protecting her pride as the woman she'd just accused of the same peccadillo. She did not look back as she strode to the elevator.

XXXXX

Nigel glanced over his shoulder every two feet, or so it seemed. He'd turned down lunch with Bug and Lily, working on a case Seeley had sent over until almost three o'clock. Only when his growling stomach made itself known, did he feign resignation and give in to Bug's insistence that he go grab a bite. "I'll cover for you. Go, go!"

He walked eight blocks west and then three blocks north, heading for a small coffee shop-internet café that he'd heard about. He allowed himself a small smile when he entered. The place was crowded enough that he was unlikely to be remembered, but not all of the computer terminals were in use. He ordered a sandwich and an espresso, waited for it and then made his way to one of the machines. He felt especially lucky when he discovered that the terminals actually had coin slots.

He fed the computer a couple of quarters and logged on. The e-mail he sent was terse, but she'd appreciate its contents nonetheless. Well, he amended mentally, not appreciate it so much, but value it. Logging off, he wolfed down the sandwich and nearly scalded his tongue downing the coffee. He planned on taking a more circuitous route back to the morgue.

XXXXX

During her break at the bar, Jordan logged on to this week's e-mail account. She groaned when she read the message. It was simple, the signal pre-arranged, the intent unambiguous.

_Baby Blue._

Get out of wherever you are. No contact for two weeks. Use the z-account we set up until you know otherwise.

It was almost three a.m. by the time she had closed the bar, counted the tills, cleaned and locked up. She wanted nothing so much as to crawl into bed and fall into a dreamless sleep – well, she wanted that last part every night and so far, no such luck – but she had no way of knowing how close the authorities might be to her, only that Nigel was worried it could happen.

She crept into the house, always cautious not to wake Vicky or any of the other boarders, but tonight more so. She scrawled a note for Vicky, inventing a fictitious crisis for the fictitious uncle in Bar Harbor and apologizing for leaving so abruptly. She moved silently up the stairs and down the hallway to her room, tossing her few belongings into the duffel bag she'd carried with her this far. With a look around the small, but comfortable room, Jordan shook her head to drive away the tears. She promised herself that someday she'd come back.

When it was all over.

If.

XXXXX

The morning after Nigel sent his e-mail warning, he came in to find Dr. Macy waiting for him. Macy closed the door and fixed the criminologist with a hard look. He let Nigel begin to squirm before saying anything. When he did speak, his voice was brusque. "I think it's time you tell me everything you know. And, Nigel? I mean everything."

For the briefest of moments, the Brit thought about feigning ignorance, denying he'd had anything to do with Jordan since the night she disappeared, but the look in his boss' eyes made him abandon that thought as quickly as it had come. He sighed. "I don't know where she is."

"Fine. I believe that. But I know you're helping her. I want to know what you've found out."

"Dr. M-"

"Nigel, I've managed to keep Detective Simmons at bay so far, but I'm not going to be able to do that indefinitely. The faster we clear Jordan, the better for all of us. So, maybe if you tell me what you know, I can help make that happen."

Nigel looked at the floor for a moment. When he looked back up at Dr. Macy, his eyes shone with something that was almost happiness and his mouth quirked into a relieved smile. He rubbed his hands together. "All right, then."

Garret knew Nigel still wouldn't admit to anything as to how he contacted Jordan, but that was all right. Delving into the evidence he could maybe – _maybe_ – justify to Simmons and the D.A., if it ever came to that; having contact with his fugitive M.E. was another matter.

Macy listened quietly to all Nigel had to say, turning it over in his own mind, waiting for something – anything – to jump out at him. He nodded several times, not making any comments until the Brit was done. All in all, it wasn't much. Certainly not as much as he would have expected. Then again, Detective Simmons had been certain she'd had her killer and, as such, Nigel had not had much leeway to do any extra curricular investigating.

"Well, what do you think?"

"I think we need to go back to the beginning," was the Chief M.E.'s terse reply.

"Right," Nigel agreed. "Uh… which beginning?"

Garret rolled his eyes.

"I mean, the reason Pollack came back? The fight on the security tape? When Jordan woke up?"

"Yes." Garret cracked a smile. "There were files on Pollack's flash drive, right?"

Nigel nodded.

"You know they're all related to that judge." Another nod from Nigel. "Good. I'll get Lily to see what other connections she can make."

"If I had time, I might be able to decrypt the files I haven't already."

Garret nodded thoughtfully. "From now on, you have time. Let's have Bug rerun the tox screens and all of that. And you can work our magic on the video." Garret smiled again. "I hope you made a digital copy of it before Detective Simmons retrieved it."

Nigel pulled a frowning face. "I'm hurt, Dr. M." He shook his head. "That you think I wouldn't have foreseen that little inevitability and taken steps to counter it."

"Sorry," Garret replied. "I didn't want to presume."

"Oh, no. Presume away. When it comes to clearing our girl, there is very little I wouldn't do."

"I'm getting that."

"Um… what are you going to do?"

Macy arched an eyebrow. "Besides run interference? I'm going to look at something we should have looked at earlier."

XXXXX

Late that same day, Macy called Nigel into one of the labs. "All right, Nige. We tested Jordan for GSR, right?"

The criminologist nodded.

"And we ran the blood on her dress."

"It was all Pollack's."

"Right."

"So?" Nigel's voice went up in doubt.

"So… did we check the splatter patterns?"

"There weren't any."

Garret gave Nigel a single head nod. "Why not?"

The Brit's brows knit down as he thought it over.

"You estimated how close Pollack was to the shot that killed him, right?"

"Yeah." Nigel's mouth puckered into a frown as his forehead wrinkled more deeply. He spoke slowly. "Yeah. I did. Based on the soot in the wound and the stippling… whoever held the gun had to be close enough to get splatter!"

"Right. So why didn't we observe any on Jordan? I pulled the photos. There isn't any."

Nigel shrugged. "She was covered in his blood."

"Her _clothes_ were covered in his blood. Her hands were bloody. What about her forearms? What about her face? They weren't."

"What about the GSR though?"

"Ah… that is a problem. If there was only one shot."

Nigel's eyes went wide. "You think whoever killed him shot him once, put the gun in Jordan's hands and pulled the trigger a second time!"

"Which means somewhere in that hotel room there's either a second bullet or at least evidence that there was one."

"Brilliant, Dr. M! Of course," Nigel's face fell. "I doubt the hotel is going to grant us access without some intervention from the boys in blue. And I hardly think Detective Simmons is going to be too willing to help out."

A light chuckle from Garret. "Well, you did say the _boys_ in blue, Nigel."

The Brit smiled. "Oh, Woodrow!"

XXXXX

"Explain why we're here again," Woody said, leaning toward Dr. Macy as Nigel hunted through the hotel room for evidence missed in the initial search.

"Jordan had GSR on her hands," Garret replied.

Hoyt nodded. "Meaning she fired the gun that killed him."

"Meaning she fired the gun. It doesn't necessarily mean she fired the shot that killed him. Woody, think about it. Whoever shot Pollack was pretty close to him. There had to be splatter."

"What if his blood just covered it up?"

"On her face?" Nigel looked up. "We're willing to bet there'd have been some on her face, mate. And anyway, I want to try this new technique. On the dress."

"Woody," Macy's face was grave. "We're pretty sure we can prove there were two shots."

"And I want to think that's going to help. But you know what Lu – what Detective Simmons and the D.A. are going to say."

"That she missed the first time? That she was so angry she fired twice and the second shot was the one that missed? Yeah. We know."

"But," Nigel's voice rose in happy tones. "This little darling here ought to help us with those theories." He smiled at the detective and the M.E. as he held up a bullet.

Macy smiled.

Woody inclined his head to acknowledge the first new shred of evidence, no matter how tiny, in far too long. "I hope it really can help."

"Well, let's see what else this place can tell us." Nigel was positively chipper for the first time since Jordan's disappearing act. He hit the black light and began clucking his tongue. "Shame, shame, shame. Our killer was really quite sloppy." Nigel followed a trail of droplets to what could only be called a puddle. He and Macy exchanged glances. The puddle of blood gave rise to another trail, this time of blood smears. The black light traveled up the box springs of the mattress and, sure enough, the smears continued.

"Nige."

The Brit looked up.

Garret pointed.

Nigel turned around and shone the light toward the suite's door. Another trail of blood – some splashes, some drops – led away from the puddle toward that door. The last splash disappeared under the bottom of the door.

All three men looked at one another. And smiled.

"If Pollack was shot in the hall…." Woody didn't dare say any more.

"Then we could be in a whole new ball park," Garret finished.

Nigel was peering more closely at the blood evidence.

"Can you recreate what happened, Nigel? Based on the pattern of the stains?" Woody's voice was hopeful.

"I think so, mate. I'll certainly do my damndest."

XXXXX

Nigel glared at his computer screen. As was so often the case after a monumental discovery, everything seemed to grind to a halt, the ensuing tests taking an eternity to run, results needing to be checked and re-checked and, when theories didn't pan out, new ones had to be developed. All the while he worried about Jordan and counted the hours until he could even begin to hope she'd e-mail.

The Brit was muttering to himself, hoping talking out some possible scenarios might give him some inspiration about what to try next when Bug appeared in their office. "I've got something."

"On the tox?"

Bug nodded.

"That's great. Right?"

He shrugged, his face glum. "I can't identify it. It's not any of the usual things you'd expect to find. Not even any of the rarer combinations."

"Any idea of its components?"

"As near as I can tell, it's similar to Rohypnol. Similar. But with a lot more power."

Nigel stared at him for a minute. "Rohypnol?"

Bug ignored the rhetorical nature of the question and listed the components; Nigel groaned softly.

"What? Nigel?"

"I have an idea. I have to – I need to get in contact with an old mate." Nigel picked up his keys and dashed out of the office.

"What old mate?" Bug called after him.

Nigel stuck his back in the doorway. "Can't say. If I did, I'd have to shoot you. But… can you make me a copy of your results? I'll get it after I make a few calls."

"Sure."

"Oh… and can you do me a favor? It's about Jordan's dress…."

XXXXX

It took Nigel twenty-seven hours, three false trails and an unspecified number of cups of coffee, but he found himself in a dingy little sandwich shop in Bethesda, Maryland, sitting across from a man he'd last seen disappearing into the black night of an African jungle. Nigel studied the man as he read the report Bug had copied.

The man looked up. "Where'd you get this?"

"It's a tox screen."

"I can see that. Where'd you get it?"

Nigel took a deep breath. "A woman I – I work with. She was – She woke up in bed with a dead man and no memory of how she got there."

"I take it your local bobbies figured they had the case pretty well stitched up."

Nigel nodded. "She'd been – there'd been a relationship with the man."

"Lover's quarrel? All that?"

"_She_ even thought at first she must have done it."

"But she's not the type, Nigel?" For the first time the man cracked the hint of a smile.

He shook his head. "There were a few… irregularities. Enough to get her – to get me – us – looking."

"Do you know what you've found?"

"Thor's Hammer?"

The man nodded. "How do you think she got it?"

"In a drink. Intended for the man who died."

"That would make sense. Slip a man a large enough dose of our friend, Thor, and, after he tells you everything on his mind, he'll go to sleep and never wake up. _And_ there's hardly a pathologist in the world who'll say it was something other than heart failure."

Nigel nodded.

"Your friend is lucky. Whoever put the chemical in her drink didn't know the dosage. Or that it dilutes in alcohol."

"And when it dilutes…?"

"When it dilutes, it causes irrational behavior, disorientation and, eventually, the person passes out. Usually when he wakes up, he has no memory of events from the time the chemical hit his blood stream."

Nige didn't like the sound of _irrational behavior_ or _disorientation_. Both terms were too ripe for the D.A.'s own arguments, but the memory loss certainly fit with Jordan's case. "What about physical… reactions? Abilities?"

The man snorted. "Even diluted, our friend, Thor, packs a mighty wallop, Nigel. Within about fifteen minutes your friend would have been unsteady on her feet. After that, the progress of the chemical would have accelerated. Twenty minutes after ingestion, she'd have hardly been able to walk." 

"Shoot a gun?"

"Bollocks! No! If she could even hold onto a gun, her arms would have no strength. She could probably fire at her own shoes, but that would be about it."

A slow, victorious smile spread across Nigel's features. "Thank you, mate. It was hell tracking you down, but worth it."

"Nigel." The word was bleak, solid. "You can't use any of this. The only reason I answered your questions was you were there when we began testing Thor."

"Don't worry," Nigel assured him. "I don't think I'm going to need to use any of this. Not in the way you're thinking. By the by… who would have access to this stuff?"

"That I can't answer."

"Right." The Brit nodded. "Thanks again, mate. You're a lifesaver. Quite literally." Nigel didn't really need an answer. The drug was strictly black ops. Whoever had gotten a hold of it would have needed one hell of a security clearance and that was going to narrow the field considerably. As he drove back to Boston, Nigel felt the frame around Jordan begin to crack. He hoped that before long it would be in pieces – sharp, jagged, but ultimately _useless _pieces.

END Part Four


	5. Chapter 5

DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Willing, ready and able to stage a coup.

NOTES: I've only been working on this for six months now. The upcoming premiere motivated me to get it done! Oh and the police work and forensics is incredibly unrealistic, I know. Call it creative license which, were I being paid for this, I wouldn't do, but given I'm not…well, do the math.

DEDICATION: Those of you who so kindly feedback my stories. I appreciate it tons and tons. J/W fans will like the way this one turns out – after a lot of twists. Scout's honor!

**I Know You're Out There Somewhere: Somewhere You Can Hear My Voice**

The night Jordan had left Staunton, she'd hiked to the truck stop on the interstate, about three miles away. The walk had been long and cold, but worth it in the end, when she managed to hitch a ride with a trucker heading west. Her luck held out long enough for the trucker to prove to be the silent type. He didn't ask questions, beyond "Where ya' headin'?" and he didn't even seem inclined to ask for any sort of favor in return for the ride.

She let herself get a little sleep, waking up as the sun was beginning to paint the sky behind them. She bit back a sigh, remembering where she was. And why. She cursed herself for getting too comfortable, for staying way too long in one place. The false sense of security had been ripped away like that proverbial band-aid covering some wound. She refused to be lulled again, even by the silence of the man doggedly driving the big rig. He didn't protest when she decided to leave his taciturn company in Indianapolis.

The Crossroads of America.

Jordan smiled sourly to herself. Her options were wide open. North, south, west… not east, of course, but she could box all the other compass points. Maybe north… maybe Kewaunee, Wisconsin. Learn something about the small town that had made Woody Hoyt who he was. Maybe south, into the heart of Dixie. She could adopt a Southern accent and go walking in Memphis. Maybe west. So many choices there. The dry, desert southwest. It would be warm and hell, if she went to Arizona, maybe none of the retirees would be able to see or hear well enough to realize she was the fugitive with her picture on the post office wall. Or she could head out along the Pacific coast. Northern California, Oregon. Even Idaho. Maybe she could find a nice little commune where they'd think it was cool she was defying authority. She even let her thoughts run to Alaska. The moose wouldn't turn her in, right? What was the ratio of single women to men up there? She could find some guy, get married, have a few kids. No one, but no one, would ever look for Jordan Cavanaugh to be the soccer mom in the Christmas card photo. Great cover.

Two weeks of this? Of being inside her own head, unable to e-mail Nigel, not knowing what, if any, progress was being made. Of having no one to talk to, to trust, even in the littlest bit. She wondered when – not if - the moose would start looking like a good option.

With a sigh, she stuck her thumb out again. She'd head further west. Somewhere big enough to blend in, but small enough people wouldn't think to look for her. Hopefully.

XXXXX

"Was your friend able to help you?"

Nigel looked up at Bug. "Yeah. Yeah, he really was."

"Plan on telling any of the rest of us?"

"Not yet." The Brit raised a hand to forestall the inevitable protest. "Look, right now I'm the only one with all the pieces. I'm the only one Walcott or Detective Simmons can touch. It's better for everyone if it stays that way."

Bug shook his head slowly, not in disagreement, but frustrated acknowledgment. "Well, I've got another piece for you."

Nigel's face lit up. "The dress?"

His colleague nodded. "That new technique is a bit tricky, but quite useful."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning I was able to analyze the blood on the dress and determine that there was no splatter at all." He arched one eyebrow. "Also, no tissue or anything else you should find if she'd been close enough to shoot him."

"I knew it!"

"Nigel, you don't even know if this new procedure will stand up in court," Bug admonished.

"Court? It's not going to get that far." The criminologist turned back to his laptop screen. No one had said hacking into the Pentagon's website would be easy. Vital, yes; a walk in the park, no. But he needed the names of men – they would probably all be men – who would have the kind of security clearance to be able to get their hands on Thor's Hammer. He had the _how_ and it **was** going to lead him to the _who_. After that, he didn't know how much he cared about the _why_, just so that Jordan could come home.

XXXXX

Woody hunched over Jordan's desk, reading Bug's report on the dress. Re-reading it, really. Re-re-reading it. He sighed. He knew the information was good news for Jordan, but he wasn't sure he understood the technology behind it and he wanted to. He wanted to be able to explain at least a part of it for the inevitable confrontation with Lu, with Renee, with his own captain. He took a deep breath and began again.

"Want a translation?" Garret stood in the doorway.

Woody shook his head. "How do you guys make sense of all this?"

Macy shrugged. "It's kind of like learning another language. After a while, it doesn't seem difficult."

"Yeah? Well, right now I feel like one of those dumb tourists who go around speaking louder when they're in some foreign country thinking that might do the trick, you know?" He scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Is it really going to help her?"

The M.E. walked into Jordan's office and closed the door. He sat down. "Yeah, Woody. It's going to help."

"What if – What if you have to take it – you know…?"

Garret arched an eyebrow. "Into court?" He shook his head quickly. "It's a new process. We probably wouldn't have much chance of getting it in, but that's not what we're aiming for here, Woody."

"I know." His eyes clouded. "I'm just – I'm trying to be realistic, Dr. Macy. Everything we – Lu and the D.A. – everything they have is circumstantial, but from what I can tell, everything you guys have is, too. They don't always cancel each other out."

"No." Macy nodded. "No, they don't. We know the best way to clear Jordan is to find out who really did it. We're just following every little piece of evidence we can find."

His brows still knit together, Woody straightened up. He tapped the report. "Okay. Bug explained this to me, but… well… you know, he got kind of – well, a lot – technical."

The older man smiled. "The English version?"

"That'd be great."

Garret thought for a moment, trying to come up with a suitable analogy. "Have you ever done any painting or, maybe, I don't know, wallpapering?"

"Yeah. When we lived with my aunt and uncle. My aunt decided she wanted to repaper her kitchen. Man. That was a bitch. Pulling wallpaper off in little strips." He shook his head with the memory.

"Find anything under those little strips."

"Sure. Another layer of paper. And a third actually." Woody stopped. "What's that got to do with the dress?"

Macy smiled. "Each layer of wallpaper told its own story, right? Kind of when it was put up. How well it was put up. That sort of thing."

"I guess." Woody added a shrug.

"Well, what Bug did with the dress was like that. He took a section of the dress and used a chemical compound to bind the blood molecules in the stains. Only the compound he used was one that can be calculated to show different… layers. I don't want to get too technical-" he smiled "-but basically once Bug had established an age for the blood, he could adjust the solution he used to reveal an order as to how the staining occurred."

Woody narrowed his eyes, digesting this information.

Macy had another idea. He drew a pad of paper toward him and grabbed a thick, permanent marker. He made several splotchy marks on the surface. He then added a few wild streaks. He finished by coating the page with ink. Then he looked up.

Woody was nodding now. "The blotches…at first. That would be splatter. The streaks would be blood smears as maybe they fought a bit more… and the …the way you finished it…."

"That would be Pollack, bleeding out on her."

"Only, looking at that, all you see is the bleeding out."

"Right, Woody."

"But if we could – essentially – lift up the layers of ink you added…." He raised his eyes to Jordan's mentor.

"We'd see those things – the smears, the splatters, all of it."

Woody nodded. "They're not there."

Macy shook his head. "She didn't shoot him, Woody. She fired a gun, probably that bullet we found, but she was nowhere near him and we know the killer was pretty close to Pollack."

Woody allowed himself a smile. "It's good. You're right. It is good."

"It's not enough. We're working on it though. We've got a lot of pieces to the puzzle right now. We'll figure out what the picture is, Woody."

XXXXX

Jordan's eyes snapped open. She sat up, gulping air, heart thudding in dull fear. She pushed herself out of bed and hurried to the shower, turning it on full blast. She stepped under the hot stream, trying desperately to wash away the chill, slimy sweat coating her body, souring her hair. Only as the water began to run cold did she begin to feel clean – or cleaner.

Out of the shower, she paced, her immediate, visceral reaction attended to, she now needed her mind to go back, to show her again the images that had so shaken her. She needed to coax out last night's dream.

Five minutes later she already knew it was futile cooped up in the BelAire Motor Court in Thisbe, Kansas. She threw on running clothes, grabbed her room key and headed for the town park to run. She'd spent the last three days waiting tables at the local greasy spoon. They hadn't asked too many questions and she hadn't given away too much information, just accepted the pittance they offered. She knew she wouldn't be staying anyway. But for now it gave her a little right to be there. She was "Bill Wilson's new counter girl" and not a stranger possibly looking for a kid to abduct or a good place to stash drugs.

She ran around the park eight times, a distance of two miles. Her legs protested and her lungs burned as she slowed to a walk and eventually sat down on one of the benches. She rested her elbows on her knees and put her head in her hands, taking deep breaths, letting her pulse slow.

_Time to leave the party. Time to … to whatever. Talk. More. Maybe._

_In the corridor. Elevator's not here yet. But I ask._

_Why are you really here, Pollack?_

_A smile, a finger brushing away hair from her cheek. Missed you, Cavanaugh._

_Snort. Yeah. What's the real reason?_

_That is the real reason. Gazes locking, implacable, pleading on both sides. A sigh. All right. I'm also working on a story. I – I could use your help._

_A nod, the small kind, the one that says I knew this was coming and I'm not hurt by it, I was ready for it. Except that's not true._

_Cavanaugh! Come on._

_You need my help._

_I need you, if that matters._

_Nothing. Trying to speak. Head buzzing. He reaches out and… I slap his hands away, angry, my pride hurt._

_He keeps at it. Then we are in the elevator. The world is gray. There's a sound. Some creature is … what… sounds ill._

_God. Me. It's me._

_Come on, Cavanaugh. This isn't good._

_Arm at my waist, holding me, half carrying me to the suite._

_Door opens, already is open - ajar. No key._

_Runrunrunrunrunrunrunrun!_

_See his eyes. Flash._

_Hands pull at my shoulders, pull me back, pull me away. Stumble as heel breaks._

_Eyes wide. Mine. His. Don't know. My name. He shouts my name._

_Another sound and she dies, Pollack. Got that?_

_Nod._

_Dragged back, almost to the wall. Barely standing. Can't see._

_Pollack is behind the other one. They move. Toward the hall. Into. He blocks Pollack from me. Taller._

_I hear it lowly. I see the man's arms… catch. He turns. Pollack, slumped._

_That sound again. Mewling. Whimpering. God. Me._

_I can't move. Not just – not just coz the other one…shake my head…clear damn you. Clear….what?_

_Gun. In my hand. Wrap my fingers around it._

_I pull away but nothing happens. Muscles not taking orders from brain. Help. God. Help._

_Trigger. I feel my finger around it. I feel the second man wrap his finger over mine. Pull._

_Soft whistle. Silencer. Of course._

_The first man has Pollack on the bed._

_The second one… drags me…puts me…oh God. No. Pollack. No._

_They are talking. Words don't – don't mean…._

_Water. Runs._

_God. They're going to clean it all up._

_It'll look like…._

_Noooooooooooooooooooooooooo_

She took steady breaths, shaking all over again. Yeah, that was it; that was the dream. Being awake and having it all come back to her didn't do much to improve her reactions. But it could improve her chances of returning home. She stood up on trembling legs and headed for the convenience store on the corner.

Back in her room, she made quick notes, as if the images might flee or as if she could write out the horror, bleed it onto the paper, the faster the better. Whatever else it did, writing did calm her. She read over her notes and began to draw out what she believed had happened. Then she did something she hadn't planned on. It meant moving on from Thisbe, after four days when she'd hoped to get a week, but she didn't think anyone would see it coming and she had to do _some_thing.

She turned the page in the notebook and began writing anew.

END Part Five


	6. Chapter 6

DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Willing, ready and able to stage a coup.

I've only been working on this for six months now. The upcoming premiere motivated me to get it done! Oh and the police work and forensics is incredibly unrealistic, I know. Call it creative license which, were I being paid for this, I wouldn't do, but given I'm not…well, do the math.

DEDICATION: Those of you who so kindly feedback my stories. I appreciate it tons and tons. J/W fans will like the way this one turns out – after a lot of twists. Scout's honor!

**I Know You're Out There Somewhere: None so Blind as Those Who Will Not See**

_Dear Nige,_

_By the time you get this I won't be anywhere near the postmark on the envelope. I remembered a few things and I need you to check them out…. _

_When Pollack and I got back to the suite, the door was ajar and there were two men waiting for us. I had the only key card, supposedly. How did they get in? Shouldn't there be a record of what time they accessed the suite?_

_One man grabbed me and pulled me back against one of the walls. Whatever drug had been in Pollack's drink left me practically unable to move by then and disoriented._

_The second man grabbed Pollack and pushed him out to the hall. He was taller than Pollack. He shot Pollack at close range, practically holding on to him. _

_One of the heels of my shoes snapped. I could barely stand up and even if I could have, I would have my height without shoes._

_The man holding me got the gun and put it in my hand. He fired it down, probably into the baseboard or something._

_Nigel, I honestly don't know how much of that really happened, but it feels real. _

The Brit looked up from the letter that he'd already read into creases and rough edges. Her memories – if that was what they were – fit the facts they'd found at the suite and might – just might – give them another lead or two. That frame around their beloved M.E. cracked a bit more.

Nigel smiled. Soon, he hoped, he could let everyone in on all the details and once they all knew how to clear Jordan… Heaven help the bugger who did belong in that damn frame.

XXXXX

"Anyone seen Nigel?" Lily asked, ducking into the break room, a sheaf of print outs in her hand.

"Lab, I think," Bug replied, smiling at the love of his life. "Why?"

She waved the papers. "Information on that judge."

"I wonder when he's going to let the rest of us in on his one man crusade."

"When he can let us in without risking it," Garret replied, having come in behind Lily.

"I know, I know, Dr. Macy. He's the only one who has all the pieces, so he's the only one Simmons or Walcott could touch. Still…."

"Yeah," Lily agreed with a sigh.

"Maybe what you've got will help?" The chief gestured to Lily's handful of documents.

She smiled. "I think it… will. Wanna come with me to show him?"

Curious and itching to be in on Nigel's "crusade" despite Garret's wisdom, both men agreed. They found Nigel in his lab, hunkering next to a piece of a baseboard.

"I like a natural look myself," Garret observed. "Stain, not painting the baseboards."

Nigel looked up, unfazed by their sudden presence. His eyes darted around the room. The others followed the direction of his gaze. Lily gasped and Bug moved towards the two figures furthest from the door.

Garret looked it all over and then looked at the Brit. "You think this is how it happened."

Nigel nodded, pride evident in his eyes. "And I've got proof, Dr. M. Beautiful, glorious, bloody _proof_."

Smiles wreathed the faces of Jordan's closest companions.

"Well?" Bug gave him an expectant look.

"I invited Woodrow. Was about to go get you lot." Nigel couldn't stop grinning.

"What's this all about? I had to make up some excu-" Woody's eyes ran around the room, taking in its occupants, both live flesh and plastic. "Is this what I think it is?"

"Unless you think it's a representation of the 2004 Sox outfield," Nigel retorted with sparkling humor. "All right then, kiddies, gather 'round. Uncle Nigel has a lovely story to tell you." He winked at Lily. "Though those of you with more delicate sensibilities might want to shield your ears."

She snorted, but smiled back at him.

As if he were telling a campfire story, the Brit began in the time-honored tradition. "Once upon a time…." Groans reverberated around the room. "Now, now… let me do this my way." He dared them to respond and when none did, began anew. "Once upon a time there was a reporter. He wasn't the most wonderful fellow in the world and like many reporters, he often worked on stories that some people would rather not be published. Our reporter found himself working on just such a story. It was an ugly one – corruption, abuse of judicial power, bribery and, as our man worked backwards, possible accessory to at least one murder. Our judge got a little nervous and sent our man a warning."

"Pollack's D.C. car accident?" Garret put in.

Nigel nodded. "Only it wasn't very much of an accident. It was a hit-and-run and the suspect was not exactly anonymous to police. Now, our man, being stubborn and at least a little reckless, chose to ignore said warning."

"Why?" Lily said. "Why? What story could have been worth it?"

"Getting there, luv. I promise." The criminologist looked down. "By this time our reporter had stumbled across some connections that surprised him, I'd wager. They were connections he couldn't ignore. Now, probably any other reporter would have, but not our fellow. You see, he knew one of the people affected by this judge's actions. Knew and – shall we say – had feelings for."

"Jordan?" Woody's eyes narrowed. "Jordan knew that judge guy?"

Nigel shook his head. "She'd never heard of him – or I doubt she had. Max probably had. Max possibly even knew him. See, at some point, who knows when, our judge wasn't corrupt, didn't take bribes, but worked at upholding the law as an assistant district attorney. I guess he found it hard to uphold the law when he had a family to feed and so when someone offered him what we can guess was a large sum of money to use his position to… to make certain a particular crime would remain unsolved… well, it probably got easier with each case. It always does."

He paused and there was only silence. It was Garret who, his eyes suddenly dark with exhaustion, finally spoke. "This judge? He had something to do with Emily Cavanaugh's murder?"

"I believe – and Pollack must have believed – that he helped cover up who killed her. For a price."

Bug sighed. "And so Pollack kept after the story."

Nigel nodded. "And he came back to where it all began – Boston."

"Can we – uh – fast forward to the – uh – the whole rehearsal thing?" Woody's face was slightly pink and he rubbed his left thumb against the index finger repetitively.

"All right. Well, turning the page a bit, our fellow finds himself with our heroine. They are drinking, dancing, flirting, generally enjoying themselves. They share a fateful round of drinks. She takes his gin and he is left to drink her apple cocktail. Shortly thereafter, our lovely girl begins to feel a bit unsteady. She suggests they go back to the hotel suite."

"And they had an argument before they ever got there," Woody inserted. "It's on that surveillance tape."

Nigel shook his head. "No. What was on that tape wasn't an argument. It was the effect of the drug."

"Jordan pushed him away!"

Nigel gave Woody an empathetic look, but pushed on. "Not exactly. He was trying to hold her up; she told him she didn't need his help and he insisted."

"You have proof of that, Nige?" Macy, always thinking of the evidence.

"I cleaned up the tape. And – it fits."

"With?"

He sighed. "With the drug. You all are going to have to take my word on this for a moment here when I tell you that by the time they reached the suite, Jordan could barely move under her own power. Not to mention that what she'd been given would have affected her… demeanor."

"I couldn't identify it on the tox screen," Bug reminded him.

"No." Nigel's eyes grew hooded. "Again, just trust me on this."

"Nige, not that we don't trust you, but – but whatever this drug is, we've got to know. I mean… you know, to get the charges cleared." Woody's face was earnest.

"I don't think we will, mate. I really don't. Not to clear her, anyway." He looked down for a moment. "If it comes to prosecuting the real killer…."

"It's black ops, isn't it?" Lily caught on.

The Brit nodded.

Garret whistled long and low. "Wow. Okay, go on, Nige."

"Right. Well, as it turns out, our reporter fellow and our dear girl weren't exactly alone when they got back to the suite." A chorus of exclamations and questions greeted this. He waved them away. "Let's just say that I know that and that I managed to make a friend at the hotel. A friend who checked the electronic records for that room."

Bug was nodding. "Someone accessed the room?"

"Yeah. At a time when we know Jordan and Pollack were still in the bar. My new-found friend also checked all the other records. No staff went into that room. In fact, a second key card was issued shortly after the rehearsal dinner began. To a man claiming to be J.D. Pollack."

"There was no key card on him," Woody added, his voice dull.

"No. And I showed the girl who issued the card a photo of our late reporter. She couldn't give me a description of the man who asked for the card – beyond that he looked like a body builder - but she swore it wasn't Pollack." He took a breath and grabbed a sip of water from a nearby bottle. "So, you see, someone was waiting for Pollack. A couple of people, actually. One grabbed Pollack, another grabbed Jordan."

Woody leaned against the wall. "So one of them shot Pollack. They put the gun in Jordan's hand and…?"

"Fired a bullet into the baseboard. This baseboard actually. They staged the rest of the scene, cleaned up and left."

"Figuring Jordan wouldn't remember anything and that, the way it looked, she'd be charged." Lily's voice held that warning edge to it.

"I suspect they more or less thought Jordan wouldn't wake up," Nigel replied.

"This is great, Nige." The cop's blue eyes burned. "But how much of it can you prove?"

He smiled. "I can prove there was a drug in her system. I can prove there was no splatter on her dress. I can prove she was the right height to fire the bullet into the baseboard, given its angle of entry. I can also prove she wasn't tall enough – never mind she wasn't close enough – to fire the shot that killed Pollack."

"She was in heels." Garret sighed.

"Did anyone notice one of her heels was broken?" No one said a word. "None of this is speculation. Some of the technology is new, but I don't see why we need to let the D.A. in on that little fact."

"What about the bartender?" Poor Woody couldn't quite leave off being a cop.

Garret answered him. "I have a feeling if we go back and do what we should have done from the beginning we'll find out that the forensics aren't really there."

Nigel smiled again. "Already done, Dr. M. The bartender was killed by someone taller than Jordan. And…" he took another breath, "…I sort of tracked her movements that night. I found a pawn shop owner who admitted to me that he sold her a gun. A thirty-eight, which wasn't what killed Lance." Another smile – this one very much a Cheshire cat grin. "Not to add that she bought it around the same time Woodrow there and I were examining Lance's body." He held up a hand to forestall any protests. "I know, I know. She might have had a different gun."

"We never found one."

"Right. Why buy a gun if you already have one?" The criminologist shook his head. "Jordan didn't do any of this."

"And you have your proof." All heads turned to stare at the interloper in the doorway. Renee Walcott wore a sour look on her face.

END Part Six


	7. Chapter 7

DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Willing, ready and able to stage a coup.

NOTES: I've only been working on this for six months now. The upcoming premiere motivated me to get it done! Oh and the police work and forensics is incredibly unrealistic, I know. Call it creative license which, were I being paid for this, I wouldn't do, but given I'm not…well, do the math.

DEDICATION: Those of you who so kindly feedback my stories. I appreciate it tons and tons. J/W fans will like the way this one turns out – after a lot of twists. Scout's honor!

**I Know You're Out There Somewhere: Still True**

The D.A. strode into the room. "Excellent job, Nigel." She turned to Garret. "It seems he follows orders about as well as Jordan does."

Macy only shrugged.

Walcott wasn't about to back down quite so easily. "You know, it would be nice if you had another suspect. Nice for Jordan, that is. Juries aren't always swayed by this kind of smoke and mirrors."

"It's not!" Nigel protested.

She went on as though uninterrupted. "And if somehow you can still prove she had nothing to do with it, there is the matter of jumping bail. And, if I heard correctly, an illegal handgun."

Walcott's triumph was short-lived.

"Oh, I think you'll find reason to drop those." The room grew slightly more crowded. "Especially with the federal government handling the prosecution." The newcomer smiled widely around. "I have a warrant for all the evidence and I strongly suggest, Ms. Walcott, that you drop all charges against Jordan Cavanaugh. After all, she's going to be a federal witness in a very important case." Special Agent Drew Haley flourished the aforementioned warrant amid cheers from the morgue staff and one member of the B.P.D.

XXXXX

Jordan sighed softly. She'd made contact with Nigel three days ago. As much as it had hurt her pride, she'd asked him for a small loan, her funds running dry. He'd replied the next day, agreeing. Another two messages had set up the place, a Kinko's-like establishment in Wyzetta, Minnesota.

She entered the shop and asked at the counter for a wire transfer for Christy English only to be told there was no such wire. Confused and alarmed, Jordan managed to reign in her roiling emotions long enough to rent a little computer time. She'd check her e-mail, see if Nigel had changed his mind, at least send him something asking what was up.

She was further surprised and more anxious when she saw a new message. Fingers shaking, she clicked on it. Her brows knit down and she re-read the single line. "Turn around."

After a long moment, she closed the message and exited the program, logging off. She then turned around. All she saw were other patrons.

Then she noticed the newspaper. Held up in front of its reader's face. She read the headline.

Twice.

Three times.

"What the hell?" She murmured.

The paper lowered and she gasped. Then she was in Woody's arms.

The paper fluttered to the floor, its screaming type "_Boston Medical Examiner Cleared of Murder"_ now easily ignored.

XXXXX

Woody watched, the twitch of a fond smile playing on his lips, as Jordan, sitting cross legged on the bed in her tiny motel room, read the article again. She looked up to where he stood, leaning against the dusty television. "You guys figured all this out?"

He shrugged. "Nigel did most of it. He's the one who should be here, really." Woody gave her an intense appraisal. "He said…."

She looked back down, her fingers tracing the screaming banner. "I'm a federal witness?"

The cop chuckled. "Well… sort of. Haley mostly said that to get Walcott to back down." Woody smirked. "Nice trick, by the way. That guy could come in handy." Another shrug. "Positive i.d. of the guys in your room when you… when it all happened. Testify. Maybe. Case may not even get to court."

"How'd Haley even get involved?"

Woody grinned. "I guess Nigel asked some questions that… shall we say… set off a few alarms with certain people."

"I taught him everything he knows," she joked. "What questions?"

"I don't know. Neither Haley nor Nigel would talk about it. I think – we think it had to do with the drug Bug found in your tox. The stuff was… Black Ops it sounds like. Obviously, no one thought it would ever be identified."

"But Nige figured it out."

"And it must have been a damn short list of people who could get it."

"God, I can't believe it," she breathed, letting her chin drop toward her chest. "After all this time…" He watched her eyes fill with tears. "So many years… so many… lives changed." Her eyes caught Pollack's name in the article. "Ended." She looked back up, the tears spilling over. "Did he know?"

After a long moment, Woody nodded. "He made the connection."

"It says… it says there'd been a previous attempt… on his life. That car accident."

"Yeah."

"Why didn't he give it up? It was just a story!"

_Because he was like any reporter on the trail of a big story?_ Oh, how much did Woody want to dismiss Pollack, to put into words the thought that could relegate him to the role of minor figure in this drama. He swallowed and chose the mature path instead. "I think you know why, Jo."

"Do I?"

"Jordan." He needed just the soft syllables of her name.

Delicately wiping at the tears flowing over her cheeks, she nodded.

The reason she'd never stopped trying to find an answer.

The reason her friends had unknotted this Gordian of a puzzle.

The reason Woody had flown halfway across the country to bring her news anyone could have told her on a phone.

The reason she'd run whenever people got too close to her.

The reason Woody _would_ have been the rebound guy, at least temporarily.

"Come on," he murmured. "Pack up whatever stuff you've got and we can get a flight out today."

The reason she said, "I can't. Not yet."

END Part Seven


	8. Chapter 8

DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Willing, ready and able to stage a coup.

NOTES: I've only been working on this for six months now. The upcoming premiere motivated me to get it done! Oh and the police work and forensics is incredibly unrealistic, I know. Call it creative license which, were I being paid for this, I wouldn't do, but given I'm not…well, do the math.

DEDICATION: Those of you who so kindly feedback my stories. I appreciate it tons and tons. J/W fans will like the way this one turns out – after a lot of twists. Scout's honor!

**I Know You're Out There Somewhere: Somehow I'll Return Again to You**

Woody quickly saw the futility of arguing with her. He simply sat down next to her on the bed, glad she didn't scoot away as he'd feared she might. She even let him take one of her hands as he asked, "Why?"

Her whiskey eyes filled with fresh tears as she studied her lap. He watched, his heart clenched tightly in its cage of bone and flesh, as the tears fell and she made no attempt to hide them or wipe them away. Finally, she shook her head, words unable to convey to him the need within her.

Despite his own frustration, Woody wrapped his arms around her and gently drew her down to lie at his side. Her head rested on his shoulder and he drew a hand through her dark curls, letting her continuing tears soak his shirt, the cool wetness of it intensifying the emotional ache into something almost physical. Long moments passed – how long neither of them knew – before she murmured, "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," he replied, his voice raspy, his throat tight. It wasn't okay, not really, and she knew it, but in this instance the spoken truth could only hurt. Not that the unspoken truth didn't.

"Woody-"

"It's okay, Jordan. I understand." His eyes were glued to the ceiling.

"Good," she snorted. "Can you explain it to me?"

He looked down at her to find her face upturned to his. Her red-rimmed eyes and tear-streaked face caused his heart to clench even further. Gently, he wiped the moisture away from her face. He kissed her forehead and disentangled himself from her. He walked to the door, stopping to look back. "I'll wait."

She bit her lip.

XXXXX

Her life restored to her, Jordan still couldn't return to Boston, not yet. She didn't know how to say it even to herself, but she needed space to sort out the last year or so of her life. She needed time and anonymity to help close up the gaping wounds on her soul. She knew she had at least one obligation back home – testifying for the FBI, but Drew Haley worked that out, flying to her instead. She appreciated his solicitousness. Then again, she got the feeling his personal experiences had given him too much familiarity with her raw emotional state.

She phoned a few times, calling the Morgue, avoiding Woody, much as she always had – except that one time. That one time. The one that had probably changed not only her fate, but Pollack's. No one asked when she was coming home and she was grateful. She let herself drift.

It didn't do any good. Not as far as she could tell at any rate.

She was beginning to wonder if she'd ever reclaim even a small piece of the life she'd led. Morose, bitter thoughts filled her mind and heart as she sat on the beach in San Diego, California. Somehow her wanderings had brought her as far from Boston as she could get without a passport. She arched her back, enjoying the warm sun on her face, marveling, as she always did in this part of the world, how beautiful the weather could be even in December.

New Year's Eve actually.

Her eyes were closed, but she felt the shadow cross her face. Opening them, she found herself staring at a priest. He smiled down at her. "May I?" His hand gestured to the sand next to her.

She nodded.

"I don't mean to intrude, but you looked… in need," he explained.

She flicked up her eyebrows and then shrugged. "I thought we were all in need of something, Father."

He chuckled. "True. Very true." Only the sound of the surf could be heard as it pounded forward and then withdrew along the sand. "Would you care to talk about it?"

Jordan gave him a sidelong look. She started to ask if he was serious, but something stopped her. "I – I don't know."

"You don't know if you'd care to talk about it?"

"No. Yes." She shook her head. "I don't know if I know _how_ to talk about it."

"With God all things are possible," he reminded her. His eyes sparkled with good humor.

"Ah, you're God then?"

He laughed. "Hardly."

"Good," she replied. "Because this conversation would be over."

The priest studied her for a moment. "I'm sorry," he said after a moment's reflection.

"Sorry you sat down?"

He shook his head. "Sorry you feel that way."

Jordan nodded once, sharply. "It's… a very long story."

"Tell me one chapter." He inclined his head. "If you want to."

And suddenly, she did want to. "There was – was a man." She swallowed. "Two, actually."

"A sadly familiar story," he assured her.

"Yeah. You can say that again." She looked over at him as his mouth opened. "But please don't." _At least taking that collar hadn't meant relinquishing his sense of humor_, she thought. "Um… one of them… we had a – a history. Long. Complicated. It – It – We were friends and… then we weren't."

"I am going to guess this is where the second man comes in to the story."

Jordan nodded. "He was… not my type. Not that – not that I really have a type. I'm not good at all of the…whole relationship thing. Anyway, I – I did try with him."

"But it didn't work out."

"No. And a lot of it was my fault. Something – Something happened. Something I thought would be better, but… it didn't turn out that way." She took a deep breath and held it before going on. "So we were… apart. But – But…."

"You thought about trying it again?"

Again Jordan nodded. "And then he was killed. Before we could work anything out. Before I could tell him that I did care about him, more than I'd realized."

"You feel guilty?"

"Shouldn't I?"

The priest shrugged. "Did you kill him?"

Jordan snorted. "It looked like I did at first." She waited for shock to write itself onto the priest's face, but his expression remained calm, impassive even. "But, no. I didn't."

"Do you suppose he knew?"

"Knew what? How I felt?" She shook her head. "I don't know."

"You said you weren't good at relationships, that you felt responsible for the fact this one ended, but you had decided maybe you could work it out."

"Un-huh."

The priest turned his face to the waves. "And yet you don't think this man realized how you felt about him? Did he know you? Understand you?"

She considered that. "Overall, yeah."

"Then he knew."

"Father, you don't understand. I didn't kill him, but – I still feel responsible. He was caught up in… something else from my life."

"Did you ask him to get caught up in this… something?"

She shook her head.

"Perhaps he did it out of … concern for you? Love maybe?"

She murmured shaky agreement. Sighing, she drew her knees up, wrapped her arms around them and laid her head down, closing her eyes.

"You're not responsible, Jordan. Pollack made his own choices and he wouldn't want you to feel this way."

She said nothing for a moment. The priest's words slowly seeped into her brain. She started. "How did you-?" He was gone. Utterly, completely gone. She stood up and scanned the beach in both directions, but found no one. She looked down and gasped. The only footprints were hers.

And she understood.

For the first time in seven months, the grief truly poured out. She sat on the sand and wept until she was certain she had nothing left. Then she stood up and, walking toward the bus stop, pulled out her cell phone to make a call.

XXXXX

Ten hours later….

Woody sat hiding in his office. Well, not hiding, not that he'd admit it. No, he was catching up on paperwork, planning on reading some articles on new techniques available to law enforcement. He had asked for this shift, had known it would be quiet until probably about two a.m., when the drunks would start to get rowdy or, worse, start to head home. Bitch of a way to ring in the new year, but better than staring at his television, watching that damn ball drop and wondering where _she_ was.

Wondering if she'd be kissing someone at midnight.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair. Santana had already been in once, teasing him that if he didn't come out of his den by five minutes to, she'd come get him, that she expected her witching hour kiss to be from him. Woody figured he'd conveniently have to go to the bathroom about then.

Someone knocked on his door. He groaned lowly. "Give it up, Santana."

The door opened and a dark head appeared.

Not Santana.

Woody's jaw dropped. "Jordan!"

She gave him a tentative smile, trying to gage the strength of her welcome here.

His blue eyes lit up as he took her in. "When did you get back?"

She made a show of checking her watch. "Forty-five minutes ago? An hour, maybe."

Woody's lips crinkled into a smile. "And you came here first?"

"Wanted to make sure I got here in time."

"Time for what?" His brows furrowed.

"In time to let go of the past year – years – and start this one out right." Her eyes glimmered with hope.

He could not refuse the invitation in them. He stood up and crossed to her, closing the door behind her. "You – You worked out the things you needed to."

She nodded. "With a little help."

He gave her a quizzical look.

"Never mind," she told him. ":Listen."

He could hear the squad room beyond them.

Ten…nine…eight…seven….

He knew in Times' Square that crystal ball was descending even as, in Boston, Jordan Cavanaugh had come into his arms and was rising on her toes.

Six…five…four… three….

At thousands of parties, people were chanting, he knew. They were even doing it here, the assembled voiced growing louder with each numeral, even as Jordan's voice had gone silent.

Two….

He had only a second to smile at that. Two. The two of them.

One.

Their lips met and molded together gently, perfectly. Millions of people were probably doing the same thing, but all Woody cared about, all he knew, was that the woman he'd nearly lost was sharing this new year's kiss with him and he was determined that all of her future new year's kisses would be the same.

She pulled back, heart racing, breathing a little fast. "Happy New Year, Woody."

He rested his forehead on hers and smiled. "Happy New Year, Jordan."

END


End file.
